Snatched
by zachem
Summary: 1998: Harry Potter heroically searches for the horcruxes; the Death-Eater ruled Ministry employs Scabior to round up all muggle-borns. He thinks the kidnap of mudblood Valora, then, will be easy; but she's feisty, young and beautiful and won't give in...
1. prologue

There were no stars in the sky that night, and Knockturn Alley was buried deep under velvety shadows. An insistent drip fell from a piece of twisted guttering; a small brown mouse chased along the cobbles before it lost its confidence and dived for cover. The click of heels, at first, were no more than a distant suggestion; but, as they neared, they grew in volume, the sound became rounder, sharper, as it bounced off the cobbles and the walls. But she was about as aware of the noise she made in the womb of the dark night as she was about who was waiting for her: she was a long way from Diagon Alley now, we knew.

"She's coming," Kit murmured beside me, his voice rising at the end to an excited yip. I thrust out my arm to cover the mouth that threatened to give us away and, after muffled protestations, he fell silent. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the rhythm of our breathing. The soft rubato of my heartbeat calmed me. And the harmony of her scent as it reached my nostrils- of honeysuckle, something sickly-sweet- was the only indication I needed to act, and fast.

It was over in a moment. There was just the skid of her boots on the damp stones, the rustle of clothing, the sound of a surprised breath as I smothered it. I saw her eyes go wide and they strained in their sockets to look at me. I felt the usual jolt of euphoria, knowing that as she stared into my eyes she was realising what was happening, and that when she looked away she'd already realised resistance was futile.

We dissaparated with a sharp clack. I held onto her tightly, with her head pressed back against my shoulder and my hand over her lips (which barely moved; only a silver sliver of saliva was left across my palm). We landed on a crisp bed of dried orange leaves in the centre of the wood and I rolled on top of her, disarmed her in one brief motion and then pulled my hand from her mouth. She gazed back at me with wide blue eyes but didn't say a word; her hair was spread out in a wild gold mane behind her, her arms pinned above her head. I wiped a splatter of mud from her cheek, smirked, and leaned closer. But then there was a sharp scream, and things changed.

So, I've been told by some writers that they always _intended_ to write something like this but never did. Well, I've gone and done it…A Scabior fic. Admittedly it's more film-based than book-based (because the books are a nightmare to do fics around unless you know them completely: I do not) and more my-imagination based than that. But I hope you enjoy, and reviews are _so_ welcome!


	2. one

Stumbling across the clearing, washed cold with fear and that cloying silver mist, my hands clammy, my heart thumping, bile rising in my throat, some lingering knowledge itching inside my throat: in the aching blackness of the night there were three balls of that curious light, bobbing along like fireflies, throwing vicious shadows across worried faces, stuttering mouths.

"I should've known," I muttered as I pushed someone aside. "I should've bloody known!" In between them on the ground lay, splayed and shaking, the body of a boy: his shirt was torn away from his shoulder, by knives and hurried hands, and beneath the dark crimson that had become sticky and clumped there was the hard white of bone, the edge of torn flesh. I fell to my knees, could feel them go weak; I passed my hands over the wound once, twice, before I threw a look to one of the looming figures now trembling with fear. "What the hell have you done, Hopper? You've splinched him. God-damn splinched him. I can't fix this. I can't _fix_ this!" The boy groaned and all at once fell silent, and all I could do was look slowly up towards the others, my face filled with hatred and contempt, and I said quietly, "Get the girl."

"What?" Hopper murmured.

"I said get the bloody girl!" He moved away in a rustle of leaves and hurried conversation and I stared at the body in front of me, lifeless and pale, and wondered why I was there. I knew she was there before she was in front of me because I could already here the rise and fall of her prickly arguments; Hooper pushed her to her knees on the other side of the boy and I hissed,

"You take Charms?" She lifted her chin a little, pursed her lips but said nothing. I felt a surge of anger and barked, "Well, do you?"

"Answer him," Hooper growled, grabbing her by the hair, and she nodded with a curt,

"Yes." The first time I heard her voice; lower than I expected, more nasal.

"'Do healing spells?" She threw a furtive glance towards the boy and replied,

"I'm not healing him, if that's what you mean." Hooper's face reddened and he lifted a hand:

"Don't you bloody dare-"

"Hooper," I said, and stopped him. "Heal him," I said, looking at her again. "Heal him, now. We might let you go if you do."

"Might?" She tossed her hair.

"Will."

"Our bargain?" She asked, and in the eerie ligth cast by the wands her eyes seemed to glitter. I nodded and threw her her wand. We drew away and Hooper seized my arm and hissed,

"You're letting a mudblood heal him? A mudblood? Better to let him die."

"Mudbloods healing mudbloods. Better to let her try and keep the Death Eaters off our backs. Who out of us knows the first thing about those charms?" I felt his grip tighten before he yanked his arm away with a sharp movement and walked away. When I turned back she was muttering soft incantations, and the only other noise in the wood was the sound of our fear, the far-away pining of a fox. We held our breath.

She worked for several minutes, and the boy barely stirred, except to give a quiet moan, and I watched her intently with greedy eyes, soaking up the fineness of her skin, the richness of her hair, the way her eyes were like opals in the cool night. Finally, she murmured,

"_Tergeo_," and it was done. She leant back on her hands for a moment and someone dashed cautiously forwards to disarm her and check the wound. And it was all healed except for the scar which zig-zagged across the joint. I walked forward, nudged the boy with my boot and, when he yelped and instinctively rolled onto his side, I smiled and lifted my head.

"We stay here for the night, lads," I said, sweeping a dreadlock back into its place. Behind me, Hooper had already started the protective charms and sliced his wand through the air, grumbling. I turned to join him but felt a hand fasten itself on my arm; without looking I prized open her fingers and said tiredly,

"Go and join your mudblood friend. You'll spend the night with us, I hope."

"You said I could leave," she said behind me and I heard her voice rising. "You said. Our bargain!"

"Well, I changed my mind, didn't I, darlin'?" I smirked, still walking, and as I lifted my hand I caught a glimpse of her reflection in my ring as she dashed towards the edge of the thicket. Someone caught her before she reached the boundary and I heard her scream in frustration as they threw her down beside the boy. I laughed at her over my shoulder.

"We ain't called Snatchers for nothin', darlin'," I grinned.

Part two. I hope you enjoyed it- your comments are so welcome!


	3. two

The morning crept up on me, slowly, meandering over the lip of the hill which I watched from the shadows in the edge of the wood. I hadn't slept all night, and had tried, at first, to practise closing my eyes and counting, counting, but when it had all proved useless I'd left the camp and wandered for a while. My limbs felt heavy and water-grey hollows settled beneath my eyes, but I felt more alert, somehow, and the air I breathed was very fresh and very cold, seemed to invigorate me. As the sun rose it cast the hillside in a strange effervescent light; the dew on the grass shimmered like thousands of miniature crystals, but I refused to give into the beauty of it, because there was none.

The hair on the back of my neck prickled as I heard the crunch of leaves behind me; I stiffened and, toying with the ring on my finger, snapped,

"What do you want?"

"Got a minute, boss?" I turned and my scowl lessened my eyes landed on the man standing tentatively, his hands beneath his arms, presumably in an attempt to keep himself warm.

"Yeah. Sit down, Finch," I murmured, waving a careless hand towards him. He crouched down beside me, and his dark eyes were restless as they took in our surroundings, rested briefly on my face, and then flickered away again, inconstant like a weak flame in a breeze. It irritated me.

"Thing is," he started, and rubbed his hands together. "The lad isn't strong enough to dissaparate. We can't move him like that, even if we can shift the girl, and you know the Ministry're on our backs enough as it is. We can't just leave him behind. And it'll take us at least two days to reach a floo network from here."

"And?" I asked, staring at the silver scene that was unfolding before me. "If it takes two days, it takes that. If it takes five- who cares? All we need is to get them back, alright?"

"Scabior-"

"What?" I turned to look him directly in the eyes and demanded again, "Well, what?"

"She's been saying that she ain't, you know." I studied him intently and asked,

"Ain't what?"

"She ain't muggle-born. That she's half-blood. Says her Ma worked for the Ministry." I fell silent for a moment before I said, swiping a hand back across my cheek,

"What does the lad say?"

"Ain't said nothin' much yet. Pathetic, if you ask me. Don't care where he is. But she- reckon you should talk to her. I ain't gettin' nothin' wrong this time. We're dead if she ain't mudblood." And I nodded, staring at the ground as I fell silent again, contemplative.

The sun was high into the sky by the time we started moving, bunched up in no particular formation, wandering down through the trees into the valley. Around me was the others chattered on incessantly; they were in all right, they'd done their job (and with little effort) and it looked like they'd still be paid for it. Someone had conjured a weak yellow canary that flopped about above their head. She was walking alongside the boy when I approached her, and, smirking, I fell into step beside her, lifted a piece of her hair with my wand as we moved.

"What I hear," I started, leaned forwards a little to watch the stillness of her face, "What I hear, right, is that someone's been a naughty girl. Telling lies, are we?" She didn't flinch but pursed her lips even more and flicked her hair. Agitated, I thrust my arm around her shoulder and pushed her head towards mine with my hand; the boy raised his eyebrows and squared up a little but said nothing.

"Tell me you're a mudblood." She tried to shake her head but I dug my fingers into her hair. I sighed. "Tell me you're a mudblood."

"No."

"Tell me you're full of filthy muggle blood," I hissed and pushed her against a tree. She let out a soft, _uh_ as her body hit the trunk. The boy skidded away and all around me I was aware that everyone had stopped. She snapped,

"Tell _me_ you're a thieving half-wit who's as low as the snakes he works for." Without hesitation I struck her across the face; an indignant gasp escaped my lips and I spat at her feet. A low murmur of laughter went up behind me and I tipped her face back towards me with two fingers; she looked at me ruefully with an unsteady gaze and I could see how her eyes were watering. A thin trail of blood chased down her cheek to her lip.

"Don't you ever," I warned through my teeth as I held her there. My face burned and I shook with fresh uncontrollable rage. I swept my fingertip along her chin as I drew my wand, laughing softly, tilting my head to one side as studied her intently. "Y'ain't in school now, darlin', you get me? You do what we say. You act like we tell you. Alright?" She said nothing and I held her gaze a moment longer before I leaned in and whispered, "_Episkey_." The cut whipped itself shut and I pulled back, casting a furtive glance at the others who were clustered around staring.

"What you lookin' at? Move on, lads!" When I glanced back at her the boy was crowding her, asking her quiet caring things, but she pushed him away and slipped past me. I wiped my hands on my trousers and said softly, "Don't want no dirty blood nowhere," but no-one really heard me.

Okay, so here's part two. Thanks for the reviews and favourites- it really keeps me going! What do you all think of this chapter?


	4. three

It was late in the evening; sumptuous and dark outside with the faint hiss of a north-easterly wind through the cracks in the windows. We were splayed out across the chairs and tables of an elderly but charming inn and as the lads raged with raucous laughter I gazed at a photograph pinned onto the wall. Squashed into the frame was an obese late-Victorian character that shifted and stared, occasionally lifting a hand to pat down his beard or point at the plaque below him which read: _Mayor of Little Paddock Wood_.

I tossed a crumpled napkin at him but instead struck Hooper on the side of the head, who spun around and, with a flick of his wand, fired it back. It bounced off my shoulder and when it landed on the table Finch tried to give it legs; however, only one appeared, and it went limping and rolling away. (Explosive laughter, spilt butterbeer, flickering lamps, flowered carpet; misted windows, misted eyes…) They girl was slumped in the corner, sulking, the boy leaning against the wall beside her. I didn't take my eyes off them as the barmaid wound her way through to us and placed down several full glasses; she was rounded, pink-cheeked and curly haired, and as I slapped her across her lower back the girl let out a sullen huff and leapt up towards the door.

"Leave her, lads," I said, holding a hand up as Hooper sprang to his feet, his hand on his wand.

"Can't do nothin'," Finch slurred, lifting his glass up a little. "Underage and ain't got no wand." I watched him closely for a moment, a moment where his face creased under the weight of unbearable amusement, where his skin became uneven and sallow under the light before a twitch of irritation moved me, and I kicked my chair away.

"One minute," I said, holding up an insistent finger as I shifted towards the door. The noise of the pub disappeared with the soft thud of the door swinging shut behind me, and it was suddenly quiet and cold, static and deathly. She was sitting on the step with her knees drawn up to her chest; her hair hung down across her face, this pale translucent veil over fresh virginal skin. I dropped down beside her, lifted a piece of hair with my wand; she turned away and I followed her round, undeterred, and murmured,

"Talk to me, darlin'." Her lips pulled into a long tight line gave her intention away quickly and I shoved my arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, hard; I gazed into the navy sky and said again, "Talk to me." She dug her fingernails into my palm, pushed my hand away, said sharply,

"Can't get me to do everything you want by pushing me around."

"Can't I?" I lifted my hand and she flinched, her eyes widening, darkening; a laugh like blood seeped from my lips. "Sure about that, darlin'?" She glanced away and mumbled,

"Valora."

"What?" I lurched for her again, pulled her this time by her arm (and I was getting used to the feel of her body; the way her limbs gave just a little under the skin and the muscle; snappy snapshot of how it might feel to know more).

"My name," she said, and dragged out that syllable dramatically so I heard the sting of her East London drawl, "It's Valora."

"Lovely," I said, adding, "and now we've got that straight, you gonna tell me what you're up to?" Really I was repeating her name inside, turning it over on my tongue, feeling the perfect weight of it, the way it could be rounded with the lips...

"Oh, what," she exclaimed, and a scowl crossed her face as she turned it the other way, pushing her chin onto the flat of her upturned palm. "I'm not up to anything."

"What's this about you being half-blood?" She glanced back at me quickly, her brow folded in a little, the beginnings of a smile on her face. "What's that smirk for," I commented, leaning back a little.

"Nothing. 'Cause I am, that's all." She stood up, stretched, and murmured, "You're all just wasting your time. My parents'll flip when we get to the Ministry. What happens to Snatchers when they're wrong?"

"We ain't wrong," I said, and jumped to my feet, grabbed the front of her shirt:

"What're you gonna to do? Hit me again?" She asked, this time with her face thrust up to mine, her eyes burning this acrid blue fire, so hot I could barely look at them. Instead I covered myself with a laugh and said,

"Might do. Or I might," I tipped my head to one side as I drew her wand from my pocket and lifted it up; she made an earnest jump for it but I barred her with my arm and grinned. I think some light in her eyes tried to implore me but I resisted; one fast movement and her wand was in two, and I tossed it behind me, hearing it clatter in its melancholy down the steps.

"You-" She pushed past me and dived for it but I crushed it beneath my boot, forced her chin up to me as I crouched down beside her, and she was trembling, the whole of her body, thrumming. Her eyes were just melting ice and I said,

"You ain't nothin' to us, darlin'. You're ten galleons at most, you get me?" Her bottom lip trembled and I felt her hand come up between us, the point of something cold and sharp at my throat; a slow scared smile crept across my face and I glanced down. A knife that had been on the table inside. My hand enclosed on hers and I lifted it up, seeing stars and crucifixes, my eyes in hers, eyes in hers… I kissed the blade, kissed her hand, and then twisted it around so she cried angry and loud and the knife clattered hopelessly to the floor.

"Be careful, darlin'," I said, before I pushed her back inside, my heart beating fast.

Thanks for your reviews! Double update so I can get y'all caught up. This story's also on Mibba, by the way, where my writing home really is!


	5. four

Something writhed in a torn-open stomach, bloody and black; a raging sea howled, dark water rushed, this bitter wind wailed through the cracks of a tumble down wall. Mist, swirling waters, algal bloom; in the distance a man squealed. A groan came through my freezing swollen lips: crusted blood on my skin, smeared and dirty, a weeping red eye half-closed itself. Above me they screamed, come to tear out my soul, tear it out and leave me dry like brittle bones; I shook my head and sobbed. Sobbed because there was no end, there was never any end, sobbed because in the heavy night I was alone and broken-

I cried myself awake. The light surprised me, the silhouette of trees moved through the curtain like a tortured child in a womb. I wiped my eyes and sat up, begged the dreams to go away and knew they wouldn't, was faced with the sickening reality they would be there to my death, the real death, that synthesised insanity, hopeless helplessness. I tore the covers from my body and saw myself in a mirror: grey-faced and emotionless, a wisp of red hair streaked across my nose. I swept the back of my hand across my mouth, saw the way my dark eyes reproached me and so whipped them away and realised how quiet it was.

I crept down the stairs but a noisy tread gave me away (and the cheery barmaid from last night was pale-faced and staring) and I cleared the bottom with one leap. Her eyes followed me all the way up to the door which I opened with a lazy flick of my wand and let slam behind me, but as I walked out onto the sunny openness of the day my expression hardened: Finch and the boy were writhing and rolling on the floor, and the scene burst into violent threats, purple faces, tension. He threw the boy's arm out and he screamed, his hand convulsing until it fell open; a wand rolled out from that loosened grip, stopped beneath my boot. The scene seemed to stumble to a halt. I snapped,  
"What's this?" Finch kneed the boy in the stomach and leapt up.  
"My bloody wand. We found it on him. Reckon the girl had something to do with it."  
"What do you mean, _reckon_," I hissed, and kicked it towards him. "'Course she bloody did." I saw a trembling hand reach towards me and caught a glimpse of the boy, his nose bloody, his eyes wide and scared, and I laughed, told him to get up, stand up, and my eyes tore around as anger blossomed in my chest, tightened it, constricted it. Hooper watched from a distance with a haughty smirk; Ronan, beside him, gave no expression at all. And behind him was the girl, her arms folded neatly across her chest, her eyes bright and cat-like, staring at me, her smiling mouth indignant and shameless.  
"We move," I said, approaching her, my expression solemn and unsmiling. "We move now, and we can be in London by the evening." Some rushing in the back of my mind, sickening compulsion, brief scarlet mist; I seized her my the arm so hard (so hard I wanted it dislocated, really wanted the crack and the pop and the scream) and dragged her behind me as I showed the pace I wanted. It was anger that forced that speed out of me, not determination to get away.

I wondered at the watercolour of bruises I'd left on her arm. I could only smile bitterly as I silently raged, dragging her behind me as the others moved ahead, and all around us the houses petered out into hedgerows and scanty trees and sky was deceptively blue, the air deceptively cold.  
"Looks like," I started, my teeth gritted as I held her tighter, pulled her harder, "Looks like we ain't gonna be friends, darlin'." I took her by the hair, pulled her close so she gasped and her eyes teared, her small fast hands going up to pull at mine, scrape at them, futile, and pushed that smirking face up to mine so close the warmth of her breath fluttered onto my cheek, very light. "Shame, that," I said, my voice wavering and melodic from the fury. "Things get so much harder when we ain't gettin' along, you get me? Thing is, we've gotta get you to the Ministry soon as we can. Get you all sorted out, get your name cleared, right?" I laughed long and loud and spat on the ground past her to let her know how much the thought amused me, moved me. She started,  
"Won't be-"  
"Shut up," I said, and gave an empathic tug on her hair. "I ain't finished, mudblood. Well. Until we get you all sorted out, back to Ma in the ministry- what's she do? Stupid and pathetic like her daughter, is she?- you're a filthy muggle-born. And we're gonna treat you like one. You ain't got no rights, do you get me? You ain't got nothin'. Ministry says I can kill you right on the spot if I think you're a threat, if you're not worth it." I leaned in and whispered into her ear. "_Avada kedavra_, darlin'." The sudden scent of her hair made me wild and savage with desire and I dug my teeth into her earlobe so she screamed and hit me across the chest. I pushed her hard and she stumbled away, tripping on a stone, and a chorus of laughter rose around me, and I yelled,  
"So bloody stay in line, you worthless piece of muggle dirt." I was smiling, raging, and went for the boy, saw him flinch at my hand like she had done; I didn't pity him like I had her, just dragged him near by the hood of his coat and said,  
"Talk to me, lad. You ain't up to nothin' else, are you?" He stayed silent and I shook him violently and yelled: "You ain't up to nothin' else, are you?" He shook his head and yelped,  
"No, no. Nothin' else. Nothin' else, I swear. Can we go back to Borgin and Burkes," he went on, but there was no question in his desperate drawl, "Please, can we go back, they said there they'd clear me, they knew my family-"  
"We ain't goin' nowhere but the Ministry, right? Believe it or not, it was your thievin' little friends there what gave you in." Some of the light went from his eyes, then, and he stumbled away; I asked him his name and he murmured it, wandering suddenly, like all purpose had left him, like he knew it was all over. I'd seen that expression before, in puddles of seawater, in glassy tormented eyes, and suddenly that intemperate fury failed me, and I went silent and pensive; as I walked I twirled my wand between my fingers, shooting little jets of green and red light into the ground, moving pebbles, splitting twigs, obliterating dead leaves.

I wandered closer to her; she denied me a look and tried to walk closer to the boy, pretended she was talking to him, but her fake bravery amused me, thrilled me. I hadn't touched her like I'd touched the other women, with a cruel type of violence that spread blood and split lips and forced tears from hopeless little eyes.  
"Half-blood," I murmured, hoping to provoke her as I kicked at her heels, made her stumble again. Her chin trembled but she said nothing; in a tentative, ill-judged move, Ishmael's hand reached for hers and I shot at it with a jet of blue fire, scorched him, made him swear under his breath. She turned to look at me, then, and her face was still, devoid of emotion (but her eyes, they were shivering with heat, hazy and irresistible). She mouthed two words:  
"Not over." And I wondered if she knew how closely she danced with disaster.

Here we go! I'll go scrounging for reviews, if I have to! ;)


	6. five

"What d'ya think he's up to?" Finch asked, and kicked the tree stump in front of him. We were standing in a pretty forest glen mottled with late evening light; the image was tantalisingly idyllic except for the consistent growl of the motorway that murmured along through the trees. I shrugged my shoulder and sighed.

"Dunno. Who?"

"Potter," he replied, and crouched down, reaching a hand towards the amber rings of the felled tree.

"Don't," I said, and nudged his hand away. "Oh, I don't know. Reckon we gave 'em a scare, though. He ain't gonna get nowhere. We all know You-Know-Who's got the upper one. Potter's days are numbered."

"He'll do it," someone said, and I turned around to the girl, leaning against a tree, grinding her teeth. She'd hardly spoken all day.

"Oh, will he?" I asked, pushing a piece of hair behind my ear, approaching her.

"Of _course_ he will. He's the hero of every young witch and wizard. This situation, this corrupt ministry, isn't going to last long. Harry'll win, you'll see. He's a good guy."

"A _good_ guy," I chimed, and looked around. "What do we think about good guys, lads?"

"Pathetic," Ronan called. "Ain't got the balls. Ain't got the skill." The girl turned on him:

"And you'd know about skill, would you?" I waved my wand lazily and shot a bolt of blue at the tree, in the space between her and Ronan which quickly decreased as he went for her (an electric warning, deterrent). But I didn't like the idea of his rough hand on her shoulder so I reached across and pulled her away, behind me.

"Easy, Ronan," I soothed as he tried to push me away. "Gotta get her back in one piece, ain't we?" He grumbled and spun away, kicked violently at a twig that went shooting and tumbling across the forest floor.

"I say we have some fun here and do her in, mouthy, disrespectful bitch-"

"What sort of fun would that be?" She called, and pushed against my arm which I threw out to stop her (and there was that secret thrill that came with her hand on me). "We could duel, that'd be fun. When you're blown to pieces and hanging from a tree."

"We could duel, alright," he smirked and I spat,

"Oh, shut up, Ronan. Stop arsing around. We need to go, anyway."

"And how'd you plan on doing that?" She asked smartly, her arms folded neatly over her chest, "'Cause you can't dissaparate with him in a state like that. And I've still got the trace." And she was smiling, brightly, like she hadn't done all day, her face that kind of dappled light-and-dark like just-rained-on paving. I leaned in, and with wide grey eyes, said,

"Just you follow us, darlin'. Could win a duel but couldn't get yourself out of here, could you?" She looked at me fiercely, her lips tight, bunched together, and I watched her closely, felt all that anger and that hatred just seeping from her flesh, from her eyes, rolling imperceptibly down her cheek, and it fuelled a fire inside me that had long since gone out, long since been trodden on by the footfalls of despair, depression.

"Finch," I declared, and forcibly pulled my eyes from hers, a move so difficult even Hooper saw, for a second, the way we didn't dare break the contact, me and the girl, and his brow shifted in such a way that I knew what he was thinking, his mouth twitched slightly. "Finch," I said again, and he leapt towards the up-turned log, the stump. I took the girl by the wrist and Ronan leapt forward with the boy; Hooper skulked nearer, and then we were talking, and then tumbling, but despite that false closeness the moment provided none of us could be further apart, because we were united in the pursuit of criminality, and that never brought anyone together, not really.

So as we tumbled out onto a quiet London backstreet, the alley seemed to magnify every movement we made, amplify each sound, each scrape. It seemed that somewhere during the journey the boy had pissed off Ronan because he was suddenly pinned against the wall, shaking as the point of Ronan's pressed into his skull, shot him through with fear (I saw it, didn't pity it). I felt the girl come close, felt her warmth, smelt that odd floral scent of hers. She said,

"Where're we going now?" And her voice was monotone, quiet, perhaps choked up with a tear. I turned and flicked her under the chin, stroked my fingertip along to her throat where I felt her voicebox tremble.

"Leaky Cauldron," I said, lifting my head a little to stare into her eyes, unnerve her.

"Finally, somewhere I recognise," she muttered, and lifted her hand to push mine away; but it didn't move, and neither did mine, and we stood there with our hands touching, invisible burning.

"Oh, you won't recognise it, darlin'," I said, finally overcoming her and swiping her hand away so mine came back up again, ran across her cheek and away. "Let's just say it ain't nearly as _friendly_ as it was last time you was there. It's full of people what're a little _unsavoury_, you get me?"

"I get you," she said, disgusted. "Like you, you mean?" The lad howled further down the alley and I smirked.

"I ain't nothin' compared, darlin'. You'll see." But even when I turned away I could still see her eyes in the back of my mind, opalescent and glowing, but mostly hateful. Mostly hateful.

Here we go, just for all your lovely reviewers and favouriters. What d'ya all think?


	7. six

Somewhere deep below ground, a rumbling started; it was quiet, at first, not unlike an empty whining stomach or cornered animal, and then it became a little more irate, shook a little, increased its volume, tossing itself about, careless, reckless, helpless; then, shooting, like misguided meteor through the light it came, came around the corner, and I lowered my wand and smiled softly as it halted beside me, as placid as a lamb.

"Ronan," I said, and nodded my head; we shared this look that was momentary and secretive, when he, for all his stupidity and careless brutishness, and me, for all my mistrust and excruciating sarcasm, both felt a little less of the usual animosity towards us, in the way people do sometimes when they're united by purpose (and a need for money and survival). The Knight Bus' engine thrummed dully beside us and Ronan got on slowly, carefully, and each passenger fell silent, their faces pale like moonlight, their hands clenched in fists in their pockets. Hooper and Finch followed him, the boy following, bruised and sullen, this sad little puppy condemned. In a melodramatic sweep I reached out an arm towards the door and said to her,

"Go ahead, darlin'." She looked at me, and then at the bus, at the peeling paint around the door, distantly repulsed. She didn't move. I leaned down and said softly, "Or if you want to get a little more personal, you know. I'll dissaparate with you. Know what I'd prefer." She looked at me sharply, as if she'd suddenly realised something, and jumped lightly onto the bus, headed straight for the back. I followed her, watched her settle back in the corner, and as the bus jerked into motion rest her head on the cold window, the silver smoke of her breath touching the glass. Beside me Stan Shunpike shifted a little and said, his voice uneven and shaking,

"W-where you 'eaded, lads?"

"'Cauldron," I answered without looking at him and launched myself into the bus, the silent and worried backing against the windows, retreating as I went, and I smirked, swinging down into the seat beside her, reclining carelessly, resting an arm across her shoulders; she quickly shook it off, scowled, and turned her attention to the widow again. I played with a stranded of her hair, curiously, wound it around my finger and then pulled; she drew in a sharp breath and I cast it away, let it float on some intangible thermal and away (a strand of gold worth nothing, nothing).

"Talk to me, darlin'," I sighed. The tension across her shoulders gave itself away in the way her jacket was pulled tight, seams straining. I leaned forwards a little, focused my attention onto her, compelling her to move by some force of will, and she turned, slowly, with this preliminary shy glance over her shoulder, a bashful smile. My voice was so soft. "Come on, beautiful." She tilted her face towards me a little, and then said,

"What d'ya want me to say, exactly?" I shrugged and dropped my hands, clasped them gently between my legs, and my face as full of lines, the slim paleness of my lips that neither smiled nor tossed themselves upside down, my eyebrows which were sharp lean pencil-strokes. Sincerity disguising an illicit kind of interest.

"Why don't you just tell me what you're thinking and I'll point you in the right direction." Her lips moved a little as she thought, made a little scrunched-up smile that faded, until she said,

"You're about as subtle as an angry hippogriff. What do you want?"

"Oh, to know what's up with you, darlin'. Come on."

"Liar."

"My, my," I said, and reached out to stroke her cheek (it was an addiction, I couldn't stop, the fineness of her skin invited it). "Don't say them things, beautiful."

"Oh, stop it," she said, and swatted my hand away. "You want to know whether I'm muggle-born or not 'cause it's your head on the block if you're wrong. You're doubting yourself and you don't like it. Scared by a muggle-born, aren't you."

"I ain't scared, darlin'," I said quietly, resignedly. "I ain't scared by nothin'. Ministry value me too much to get rid of me, don't they?"

"Some Ministry," she muttered, and then said, "Why didn't you take me there first, anyway? We were in London. We could've gone straight there if that's what you'd have wanted." I watched her as she smirked and said, "Wanted to spend more time with me, did you?"

"If only," I laughed, and pushed a little hair from my forehead. "We have to go somewhere safe first, don't we? Make sure we got who we want, away from _interference_ and things." The smile faded from her face and she pouted, irritated, and glanced at the window again. A dim dark reflection moved over the streetlights and pedestrians.

"Somethin' worth lookin' at, that," I said, and I saw that mirror-face shift, its eyes glance down. "Bit of a looker, are we? Keep all the boys on their toes, do you?" She chuckled, and it was low and sarcastic, before she said,

"Whatever." The bus turned sharply and threw me towards her; I landed, able to hold myself away from her with my hands on the window so she was trapped beneath me, between me and my arms.

"Got your own, darlin'? He missin' you?" But she did what she was best at and said nothing, stranding herself on her own island, left me struggling through rough waters. I lifted myself away slowly, looking right into her eyes, deep, intense, and then the bus came to a halt, and I pulled myself away and stood up, headed for the exit, shooting fire as I went, the remaining passengers leaping up and beginning to wail, panic. I liked that.

The bus skidded away, surrounded in smoke as the curtains burned, and the night was even more bitter than the last. She followed me without saying a word, and I pulled her by her arm, surveying the urban sprawl around me as we headed for the entrance. There was something darker, deliciously sinister, about the scene; the sign for the Leaky Cauldron creaked in the breeze as we passed beneath it, then entered the building, eager to retreat from the cold. But there was something cold about her as we buried ourselves in the noise and madness of the building, something solid, like ice or sugar-coating, but it was only that. Coating, a guise. I knew she couldn't hide herself for long.

Hey there! Here's a new chapter, for all you lovely readers. We're really getting somewhere now, aren't we? I hope y'all liked it. Thanks for all your reviews. There'll be another update coming soon, likely tommorow morning (but possible even tommorow night or tommorow afternoon, depending!)

With regards to the film, and my inspiration, I don't know how many people know this, but Nick Moran was interviewed about his role in the film, and I believe there were several deleted scenes which he said were 'really, really dark'. He got to give Ron a good beating up and got rather horrible, apparently. We're all asking the same question:

WHY WERE THEY DELETED?

Apparently the director said it was like watching 'Saw'. Well, if you go in for that sort of thing...


	8. seven

It was some paradox that the few places I now felt safe were anything but: the Leaky Cauldron, though still, supposedly, that wizarding safehouse it had once been, concealed many filthy secrets, though it was no secret that most people who spent a night under that roof were not strangers to murder and dark magic. I didn't feel at home because I never did (how could you after you'd been there and knew it still existed, knew you could be dragged off at any moment and never see sunlight again, feel the warmth of a lithe body beneath your hands?) but it was something close, and our world was a climate of compromise.

We strode in bristling with false bravado and Finch and Ronan went straight for the game of blackjack being played along that interminable confectory table; I let go of the girl, abruptly, and beckoned her with my finger. She moved a little closer, up to my shoulder, and she was surveying the room intently, like there was something there she was searching for, something that no longer existed. She looked paler and sadder in that light. Behind me I heard a witch mumble,

"Don't get on the wrong side of them lot. Took my sister and my uncle," and I had a sudden jolt of pride, the easiness that comes with infamy, however it's earned.

"Sit," I said, and nudged her forward, and she stared at the spot on the bench between Finch and a goblin; she looked at me sharply, shook her head, and I bit my lip and swept the goblin across with my arm (he grumbled before he upped and left) before I repeated, "Now, would'ya please sit?" She moved to jump past me but I caught her and pulled her against me, my arm up like I would slit a throat; I picked her up, instead, and she put up a little fight, kicked over a goblet with a fierce clatter that set the table in uproar for disturbing their game. I pushed her down into the seat and jumped in beside her, pulled her tightly against me with an arm around her shoulders, laughing,

"S'alright, lads. She ain't gonna disrupt you no more." And whilst they turned back I leaned across and hissed into her ear,

"Do that again and I'll bloody charm you to that chair, alright?" She said nothing, and then Hooper appeared beside me with goblets of foaming beer, and we passed them around, tumbling into rumbling laughter, spilling out false promises and false information, because like I said no-one trusted anyone else, and it was as much of a game as the blackjack.

"You playin'?" Hooper mumbled, gruff and quiet, and I nodded, looking up. Three nameless boys (about the girl's age, but shifty-eyed, dark, unpredicatable) nodded too; so did another goblin which appeared, Ronan and Finch, and then, and we knew because the room fell quiet, two Death Eaters, who swept in and snuffed out the candles with the coldness of their stares, the flourish of their midnight cloaks. They sat down opposite Hooper who correspondingly sat up a little, dipped his head to them, and proposed carefully,

"Galleon in?"

"Two," one of hooded new arrivals proposed, and a murmur of general consensus went up, because no-one wanted to be seen wallowing in the depths of poverty in the front of them, for shame and pride. He stretched a slender white hand out and with a flick of his wand dealt the cards; a small golden pile began to accumulate in the middle as the Death Eaters extracted the coins, smirking, their wands steady and sleek in the air, and each man watched it go with a rueful gaze. It was a simpler game than its muggle equivalent: whoever possessed a score nearest to two-hundred and thirteen after ten rounds (the thirteen, we guessed, was thanks to superstition or a long-standing calculation error) was the winner, and every other player either bankrupt or bereft.

I slid my hand across and tapped her on the knee as we started; it was under the table, literally, this smooth illicit move, and she glared at me, mumbling,

"Prepared to lose?" I shrugged and squeezed her knee, said,

"Two galleons ain't nothin' to me, darlin'."

The game began. I watched as my cards presented themselves to me; a giggling Queen flirted with danger, a shifting seven eyed me nervously, a boisterous one jumped for my attention. I could feel her close, peering over my shoulder, the regularity of her breathing, all of it. I opened my mouth and that word fell out- _twist_- and beside me she took in a sharp breath, shook her head, and I my hand tensed on her knee, kept her quiet. But it was a bashful two I got and my cards threw themselves onto the table triumphantly, along with one of the Death Eaters' and Hooper's.

We went on like this for a while, and although we teased and joked, relaxed ourselves with the beer, we were tense, all of us, aware of how we were making our enemies as their scores crept up past our own. People wandered past us, behind us, cast a curious eye over the game; the boy, who I'd forgotten about sat, listless and unmoving, opposite the girl, and even when she reached over to pull on his hand he barely moved- just his eyes went, dark and lifeless. She let out a snort of annoyance and leaned back again, and as we reached the final round I saw her turning around, lift her face into the murky air, look around, intently. I didn't like the way she took in every face, the way she frowned slightly as she studied a missing persons ad on the wall, watched a fat lady and a shabby wizard paw each other in the corner. Suddenly I jerked forwards, and when I look it was my coat, a sharp protrusion in the breast pocket; a Death Eater smiled at me sullenly and I unbuttoned the pocket, releasing another two galleons that flew onto the table.

"Final round, isn't it?" He said, and showed a line of uneven brown teeth. He looked amongst us, reserving his coldest, cruellest stare for the girl who didn't dare return it, just looked away, the tip of her finger brushing accidentally across the back of my hand. His gaze rested on Hooper, who was shuffling around restlessly and who now leapt up, tearing open his jacket.

"Hooper?" He the Death Eater asked, and then, "Hiding something from us?" Hooper's eye were wide and scared as he said, his breath coming in sharp gasps,

"No, no. I just- I had two. But they're not here anymore. I'll- wait. Here." He drew out his wand and pointed it at the inside of his coat, "_Accio galleon_," he muttered, but nothing happened. His eyes tore up to meet the Death Eater who stood up, too, slowly and carefully, drawing himself up to his full height, and Hooper turned on me, his eyes wild and trembling in their sockets as he muttered,

"You. You've nicked 'em."

"Pull the other one, Hooper. I ain't robbed nothin'," I replied, and there was a moment where everything paused, and the three of is formed a triangle; then, as the second tumbled in the next one, we all drew out our wands, and I blocked Hooper as he tried to stun me.

"Hooper!" I exclaimed, jumping away. "What're you playing at?"

"Thievin' liar," he hissed, and I pushed the girl away as he yelled, "_Everte statum_!"

"_Expelliarmu_!" Someone disarmed him but it wasn't me. We turned slowly, all of us, to witness six cloaked wizards that shifted in. I thought better of everything and my head throbbed and rushed. "_Accio wand_," I whispered and passed Hooper's wand to him, but he was stiff, his shoulders pulled back, staring at the line that men in front of us slowly formed into. One, whose face was covered by a crimson hood, stepped forwards, and I lifted my wand instinctively as he drew his.

"If it ain't Scabior's band of Snitchers," he said, and spat on the floor in front of me. And then I knew I wasn't safe anymore, and neither was she.

So, what did you think ? Your reviews are wonderful!


	9. eight

There was just the quiet, slowed-down happy jangle of a bunch of brass keys to cut through the silence. In that way that it inevitably does, in that calm-before-the-storm way, the world had slowed down and reduced itself to the bare essentials: just the stench of human fear as the band in front of us raised their heads and their wands; just the feeling of bone-chilling fear that soaked us through; just the sound of the keys as they fell from the wide-eyed housekeeper's hand and clattered to the floor.

"Your room's ready," she whispered, looking at me, for want of nothing better to say, in that shaky unpredictable voice of someone who realises their deed is untimely, their presence unwanted. I just tilted my head and looked at her sharply, and her watery grey eyes seemed to be asking not for salvation but for forgiveness, like she knew she was wrong to be there, like she had stumbled upon something she hadn't wanted, hadn't meant to.

A bolt of green light shot her through, and it began. I sent one back instinctively but it hit a bottle which exploded: it rebound of the emerald fragments and into the hooded figures, scattered them.

"Oh, play fair, Scabius," he yelled back, the one with the crimson hood, the one I hated, the one who hated me; amongst a sudden cross-fire of spells words seemed to bounce along too, and with a sharp cry, like a wounded infant, a mutilated animal, I saw Finch fire a spell at a Death Eater that smirked and apparated (it was only afterwards that I knew he'd departed with the money, that I knew who he was, that I realised why he'd been there). I rushed forwards and with my wand up cried:

"Why're you here, Archer? What you after?" A kamikaze spell-bolt from one of the figures came speeding past my ear and he replied,

"We want what you've got. You know what." Taken aback, my mind racing, confused, I lifted my wand, shook my head, said with a bolt of anger,

"_Sectumsempra_!" But he blocked me easily and then we were connected by a long string of light, one side green, one side red, and with my teeth gritted I fought against him, even as he twisted his wand arm, smiled; and all around us, people fell into duels: Finch and Hooper desperately defended themselves from Archer's gang who were on the attack. Why? Didn't know, couldn't think. Something was wrong, out of place. Something kept from me, something, somewhere...

When I stepped forwards a little I felt a crunch, something give, and the goblin who'd been playing cards was pale and unmoving beneath my feet.

"I ain't, " I said, my voice strained as I fought against the wavering light which danced towards me, danced back again, "I ain't got nothin' you want, I swear. I think I know which of us is the thievin' git, don't you?"

"Got a nice price for that lot an' all," he smirked, and a surge of anger came again, not because he was the leader of a rival gang but because the whole thing was personal, always had been, and this whole war was really between the hopeless souls, snatchers and thieves like us who stole from each other, fought for dominance, wasted time with stupid rivalries. I tore my wand arm up and the trembling line of light broke and blew up the light above our heads. We ducked and I attempted to disarm him; he fired a spell back, and we duelled for a moment, fast, vicious movements, incantations which caught the wailing punters which were jumping around, falling down, apparating on the spot.

"What the bleedin' hell are you after?" I yelled in desperation as I threw rapid fire in quick succession, jets of gold and green, my face contorted with fear, irritation, hatred, mirrored in his.

"Don't play with me, Scabius!" He retorted, a bolt of fire tearing a hole through my sleeve. Momentarily disorientated I tried to extinguish it but the damage was done, the moment lost; suddenly I was flying backwards and dull pain shot up my spine to my neck as I hit something hard; through that haze of delirium shapes moved in front of me, the fuzzy shapes of duelling wizards played out a halcyon battle lit by whispering candles, burning clothes. What I heard: the way our voices were strained, Finch's, Ronan's; the way the spells hissed through the air, tame fireworks in a dark room where confusion reigned and anger was second in command; someone saying my name, over and over, the slice of something on my cheek, the dribble of something thick down to my lip; the scrape of something there, the warmth of a hand, my name, my name desperately, helplessly, burrowing through the semi-consciousness, stirring me. What I saw: Ronan's face above mine, the way the room seemed to spin into focus again, the mist of smoke rising from singed objects, a body, here, on the floor.

"Scabior," Ronan was saying, seizing me by the lapels of my jacket, "Scabior, boss. _Boss_. C'mere. Boss-"

I slurred his name and closed my eyes whilst a little snake of pain slithered across my forehead; it faded and I looked around at the devastated room, empty except for Ronan and Finch who was crouched beside someone, was hitting them repeatedly across the face, murmuring some unsteady incantation...I stumbled towards him, demanded,

"What the bloody hell's happened-"

"Hooper," Ronan cut in, "Boss, boss. He set it up. He told Archer's gang we'd be here. They knew-"

"Knew what?" I said, turned on him, grabbed him but the jacket so my face was close to his, so close I saw the veins in his eyes, bulging, bright. "What's going on?"

"It's the girl," he said, and then began shaking his head. "I didn't know, I swear. None of us did. 'Cept Hooper. He knew she was-"

"Was what?"

"Ain't half-blood," a voice said, one that was oddly cold, weak. I looked to the floor at where Finch knelt: it was the boy, his chest stained liquorice-crimson, and he threw a hand out towards me, a hand that was shaking so violently. I released Ronan and rushed towards him.

"What happened to him?" But I knew, knew he'd been hit, however it'd happened, it didn't matter...

"She ain't half-blood. Muggle as they c-come," he was saying, a terrifying smile convulsing his features as his body shook, Finch helpless beside him. "Stupid to b-believe anything she says. It was 'cause of her they came, her who did me in..." Why was I shaking my head? Didn't know, couldn't say. Wasn't because I didn't believe it, because his voice was solemn with the truth, and it made his words bitter, made them turn sour in the air. Finch stared at him, perfectly still. I noticed a deep gash on his arm and on his forehead, but his face was full of regret, hopeless. "On the run, wasn't she?" The boy said, the hand near to me closing into a fist. "She's an Undesirable. Attacked a teacher, a Death Eater. Attacked a teacher..." I looked up at Ronan who was nodding too, who turned his face away and pushed his hands into his hair.

"Dead if she ain't mudblood, that's what you said," I said, looking at Finch. "Dead if she ain't-" I broke into a cruel laugh, looked around. Suddenly things seemed to shift into place in front of me, like the inside of a Gringott's vault, the cogs on the door, sliding, slipping.

"Where are they?" I asked, looking around. He shook his head softly.

"Apparated whilst you was out, didn't they? The whole lot of 'em, Hooper as well. Sneakin' lyin' bastard-"

"Her as well?" Ronan looked away and said nothing, and Finch stood up, turned away, and I said again, "Where's the girl?" Ronan flashed me a rueful look and said,

"Don't know, boss. She disappeared 'bout the time the others left. Reckon they took 'er with them, it's why they was here. They'll get hundreds off the back of her-"

"She hasn't gone." A breathy wheeze drifted up from the floor and we turned to look at the boy who attempted another weak laugh. "Nicked that key whilst you were duelling, didn't she? Nicked a lot more besides. Wanted us to run together..." Ronan and Finch looked at me at the same time. And I couldn't explain what happened, then; the whole moment seemed to unfurl in front of me, in neat order, the past and present slipped in beside one another; fate, joining everything, turning our chance kidnap of her into something greater besides.

"Hooper's gone," I said, and although on the outside I was calm, I was simmering with anger inside. "Alright, he's left. But I reckon we can turn this to our favour, lads. Reckon this'll be alright. I'll get us our money from here. You'll see." They both looked at me, wide-eyed and disbelieving, and as I moved towards the staircase I moved with purpose, because things were going to work out alright, and Hooper's betrayal could be turned in our favour, and she would get what she deserved for insulting us like she had. She'd get everything that was coming to her.

Phew, so another really intense one. The idea here is to juxtapose moments of action with a kind of steady build up, as you saw in the first few chapters, so I hope that's been well (enough) achieved. If you're still left feeling a little confused, the next two chapters'll clear it up, though you're not meant to understand it all at this point anyway. But it's all under control, k? :D If you need further clarification, check out the character descriptions, too. That should help!

Another note: I haven't really been able to find many other Scabior fanfics online, and so, y'know, if you know any Scabior fans...Point them in this direction! Feedback really is all to me, and any comments just make my absolute day.


	10. nine

The sudden silence was a shocking juxtaposition against the shock of events that had passed; the quiet complaint of the steps as I climbed the staircase seemed to warn me against being too zealous, the glow of the lamps seemed to demand that I lowered my eyes as I passed. I was aware, as you sometimes aware, of myself, of myself as I flew down that narrow sparse stretch of corridor, of the hard set of my mouth, the solemnity of my eyes and the shadows beneath them, and I pictured myself in a long mirror the colour of mercury, mottled and bruised, my lips a wound, my eyes regretful.

Sad violins as I kicked open the door. The desperate wings of a pigeon as it tumbled from the window ledge and soared into the sky. The warmer saltier air as it met me on the threshold of the room. The despair in her face as she turned to look at me. The fury in her eyes as it darted through. The way she turned to face me, pushed herself back against the black writing desk, her knuckles turning as white as the insides of her eyes, her face.  
"We need to have a little talk, darlin'," I said, and the calmness of my voice surprised me. It surprised her too because she seemed to think it indicated some contrariety inside me, and her wand arm flew up and a bolt of light hit me in the chest and it sent me back against the wall, breathless. But I'd been stunned before (not just in her way, either, but by real wizards, real situations) and my instinct wasn't but to shield myself but to react; and so by the time I'd disarmed her and had that quivering twig in my hand she was only just beginning to realise it was all over, and the balance shifted. I flew towards her so fast that in the time I left her to react she could only mutter one last tragic helpless refusal:  
"No." I shook her so hard, slammed her with such violence against the wall that the breath tumbled out of her, and she collapsed, and her body made the motions of retching but nothing came, just her head over my arm, her chin and her teeth as they knocked pitifully together against my shoulder bone. I pushed my hand through her hair which had become knotted and tried to stop me; I seized her tightly, so tight she gasped and tears sprang to her eyes, and I forced her head back so the starkness of her lovely throat was exposed, white and obvious amongst the shadows of the room.  
"Done it this time, ain't ya? Really messed things up," I hissed, my teeth bared against her ear. Her eyes strained in their sockets to look at me, I could feel the poison in her gaze. "Never trust a muggle-born, eh? Should never've listened to a word you said. You ain't half-blood, ain't half as good as that, are you? Didn't hide that very well did you. Only took your little boyfriend a bit of bleedin' and he soon came clean."  
"You killed him," she said, and her voice was thick with tears.  
"Nah, that was you, weren't it, darlin'? 'Cause what you did, right, it got them Snatchers on our backs. We ain't the only ones after you now, you get me? There ain't nowhere for you to go." She pushed against me but I pinned her easily in place; her body was taut, strained against mine, the feel of each bone as it moved, each part as it pressed against me, it was torture.  
"Let me go," she said quietly, and then, as she tried to turn around in my arms, louder, "Let me go. Let me go, you bloody animal..." She hit me on the side of the neck but it did little to deter me; I caught her arm and twisted it above her head instead, taunted,  
"That's right, fire with fire, beautiful. Like it when you get a bit lively." It took me a moment to realise what that cool white spot was on my cheek; then, when I wiped it off, when I began to shake with an anger so intense it was another emotion altogether she said, in one long rush:  
"You don't know anything. You don't bloody care to ask, either. Never gave me a chance, did you? Just took me along with you like you did with all the rest of them who're dirt to you. That's all I am, right? Dirt. Dirt or money. But you don't care that I'm a damn human being, do you, you don't care that I might have a family, I might have brothers and sisters, that I might be a feeling and loving and successful person all 'cause you're not, all because you don't understand what it's like to be part of a society that isn't founded on lies and crime-"  
"I understand all right," I spat, squeezed her write for good measure. "I understand what your little world is like. Didn't want to be part of it, did I? It doesn't give you shit, that's why I gave it up."  
"Oh, and you'd know all about what it does or doesn't give you, wouldn't you, 'cause you try so hard to find out-"  
"You don't know nothin'," I said, and my voice was rising, my heart beating faster. "You ain't seen nothin', do you get me, darlin'? 'Till you attacked that teacher I bet you ain't ever felt what it was like, ain't ya, what it's like when you do something what's against the law, what's against what people think? Bet you liked it, didn't you?"  
"I'm not like you. We're not all like you. Maybe I didn't want to, maybe it was necessary-"  
"Necessary for what, darlin'? Who you kiddin'? To satisfy your own desires, weren't it? To meet your own ends? What you did didn't have nothin' to do with necessity. You're just like us." She fell quiet, and then looked in my eyes and said,  
"I'm _nothing_ like you." A laugh came up my throat and out of my mouth, and as I stroked her cheek that was when I turned and noticed the half-open pocket lying on the bed, out of which spilled two, three, four gold coins, and inside the promise of more, glistening in the darkness. I turned my head back to her and she knew then her last chance was slipping away; she hit me in the chest and as she pulled away from the wall I easily caught her; but then she pulled back again, like she was trying to throw me off. And in her face was desperation and pain, and confusion and anger, and her cheeks flared red and her eyes were rich and watery, and when I slammed her down onto the floor the breath was knocked out of her once more but when she found it again it was coming in sobs, sobs which matched the fat tears that now spilled from her eyes and down her cheeks. With my weight holding her there she didn't move, just pulled a hand up to push the tears back and then turned her face away when she saw how intently I was staring, how fascinated I was by her outburst. She seemed lost to herself, then. And her pink lips quivered and quivered.


	11. ten

"Ain't no need to cry, darlin'," I said, eventually, and peeled a piece of hair from her cheek that was stuck to the skin with her tears. "Ain't no fairy godmother gonna come for you now. Just got me and my mates, ain't ya? Just me and your little teacher when we get you back to school…" Like she'd been kicked in the stomach she inhaled sharply, straining against me as if she'd finally realised where she was and what was happening to her.

"What? School? You can't take me back to her," she protested, her eyes wide and glassy, "You know what they're like there now. What they do..."

"Ain't my problem, darlin'," I said with a smirk, pushed her back when she gasped loudly and tried to leap up. "Ministry weren't right for a girl like you anyway. Woulda taken your wand and sent you home again, that's all. 'Sure your teachers can think of something much more _suitable_ for you…"

"No," she said, and she was shaking her head, her mouth trembling again. "No. You can't, you wouldn't." And looking at her, lying there underneath me, her face so full of things I'd never seen before, I realised that it was all up to me. My choices, my decisions. I'd taken the responsibility for her, taken it from her own hands, and her destiny in so many ways was mine now. And I felt something deep and colossal stir inside me, recognised a sort of guilt, a sort of culpability, realised that it was there, ignored it, suppressed it- but looked back into her face and found that she demanded it, some sympathy. Something. And I had to get rid of it.

"Don't," I said, and I was shaking my head. Just that expression. Killing me. "You ain't changing nothin', beautiful. Don't look at me like that." She pressed her lips together and whispered,

"Do it now, then. If you aren't going to take me back to the Ministry. If you're going to take me back to her. Why don't you just kill me now?"

"Don't be stupid, darlin'," I grinned, flicked her under her chin. "We don't get no money if we hand you over dead, do we?" She exploded into a sudden fit of anger and hit me on my shoulder; hit me across my arms, across my chest, weak but numerous blows that disorientated me a little, perturbed me a lot. She squirmed beneath me, pulling the rug up beneath her so that it bunched around us, her face white and angry as her hands tore at my clothes.

"Oh, I hate you!" she screamed, the force of her cries pushing her head forwards, her lips pouted, "I hate the lot of you. You're not human. You don't feel. You're just-" She wailed in anguish, high and long as I caught her arms and pinned them above her head.

"Putting on quite a performance, ain't you?" I hissed, pulling back a little as she moved towards me.

"Shut up!" She exclaimed, and her fingertips swiped past my face, her nails leaving soft pink trails. "Just shut up, shut up!" She pulled on my shirt, tugged it so hard two buttons came loose and in the shadows the outline on my chest became visible, and she stared at it, suddenly quiet, breathing loudly through her nose, lips pursed.

"What the hell is that?"

"What? Ain't never seen a tattoo before, darlin'?" I asked and sat up a little, pulled my shirt to the side to reveal it.

"'Course I bloody have'," she hissed, but she didn't look away, just lay there gazing quietly, placid except for the way her chest was heaving, the heat that was coming off her face. "What is it?" She said, after a moment, and then before I could react she'd wriggled free and was tracing its outline with the tip of her finger, and there was the shock of her breath on my skin, the crackling electricity of her touch, and I think she knew before I did. She looked up at me and I said slowly,

"Serpent." I caressed her cheek, quickly and gently. "For destruction." I can't describe now how her face was then; contemplative, controlled, a little strained. I ache to say that I stood up a left her but I didn't, and so I'll lie. I'll lie about it all. About how I fell on her, wild and hungry, pressed my panting mouth to her hair, inhaled its scent greedily, took fistfuls of it in my hands. About how I felt her body as it stiffened against mine, and mine against hers. I'll lie about how I tore open my belt and my trousers and pushed myself on her. About how in the middle of it all I watched a silver tear spill onto her cheek, and how she turned her face away without a word like she wasn't a part of it, her face emotionless in the moonlight, jerking as my body moved against hers. And I'll lie when I say I felt nothing at all, because even the absence of feeling is something, I know. Even emptiness hurts.

I'm not going to say a lot. Just that posts may suddenly be rather irregular for the next week or so at least, and that I really whole-heartedly appreciate all your reviews!

You can find a copy of his tattoo here: .com/albums/q87/broken_since_


	12. eleven

A low-level mumble of noise had resumed when I made my way quietly along the corridor. I moved in a way more timid than I really felt; because, as everyone knows, there are some things that leave you feeling good whatever their context, their circumstances. I moved towards the ball of light at the end which signalled the start of the stairs and, as I reached it, moved to buckle up my belt, and came face-to-face with red-cheeked figure.

"Bloody hell," Ronan said, startled. "Didn't expect to find you..." I glanced up at him and his voice fell away; he swallowed, tilted his head to one side, and then said, cautiously, "What've you bloody done?"

"I ain't done nothin," I said, but it was too quick, too ready an answer.

"What you been up to?"

"What could I have done?" I challenged, but I couldn't hold myself still and was jittery enough to be suspect.

"I don't know," he said, and lowered his eyes, and in the flash of his brown irises I know that he'd seen, that he knew; they hovered over my hands which were resting on my buckle and then, slowly, his mouth quivering slightly, I saw his hands close into fists as he said in a low voice:

"You've- ain't you? You have. Where is she?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, eyes wide and shifting in their sockets.

"Give over," he spat, and shouldered past me, "That'd be just your style, wouldn't it? To mess things up now. Hot-headed bastard, think you know best-"

"Easy, Ronan," I said, reaching to grab his arm as he pushed past me. "Just-"

"Don't you say that to me," he exclaimed, vigorously shaking my hand off. "Just tell me it ain't true. That you ain't..." I swallowed but I couldn't say anything. We reached the door under which there was a glistening crack of golden light: he turned to me, and then it started, that slow shaking of his head, disapproving gaze, so profoundly critical.

He shouldered his way in. I followed him, saying,

"Ronan..." She was on the bed, her back pushed up against the wall, perfectly straight, her knees drawn up to her chest. She didn't look any different than she had when I'd first seen her; what gave her away was the way her eyes were blank and stared ahead, the way she didn't flinch as Ronan stormed up her, demanded,

"What's up with you?" She barely moved and didn't say a word. He glanced at me. I was transfixed with her, the way her slightly dishevelled beauty tore the breath from my chest, the way her complexion was as delicate as moonlight. He seemed to take this as somehow revealing and said again,

"Cat got your tongue, girly?" She lifted her eyes, carefully and deliberately, first towards Ronan and then towards me. I smirked and looked at her sternly, evenly, and she shrugged her shoulders a little and rested her chin on her knees. Ronan exhaled sharply and spun around to face me.

"You bastard," he said, softly, and then again, louder, "You bastard. You've bloody ruined it for us all, ain't ya? You've gone and raped her. What can we do now? All it takes it one bloody look into her memories and we're at the mercy of those Death Eaters!"

"Calm the bloody hell down," I exclaimed, dodged him as he lunged for me. "It don't matter. She don't matter, does she?"

"She's the only money I know I got," he spat, moved for me again, "You selfish, you selfish cocky bastard-"

"Oh, hold the hell up!" I said, grabbed him by the arm. "You bothered asking her about this?"

"Won't say anything, will she?"

"Try her," I said and threw and accusatory glance towards her. "Go on. Ask her." She was watching me over Ronan's shoulder. He turned around, walked up to the bed and then crouched down, said in this voice that was quiet, trembling with anger,

"Fancy makin' a little contribution, darlin'?" He reached a hand out to squeeze her knee: I don't know which emotion triumphed, really, the spurt of jealousy when he touched her or the snide triumph when she jerked her leg away. "Now," he said, and I took in a deep breath, "Just tell me, girly, if he laid one single finger on you. That's all I need you know. Did he try anythin' on?" She returned his steely gaze wordlessly. Ronan snorted and bit the inside of his lip. "Did he rape you?"

I inhaled deeply, buried myself in making my chest rise and fall, my heartbeat stay steady. She looked at me, then. Really looked, looked through me, her distant gaze lost in some other room, some other parallel universe. Then, finally, she glanced at Ronan, and shook her head slowly. His nostrils flared.

"Well?" She lifted hers shoulder nonchalantly, then turned away. Her voice swam towards me through the dim light.

"No." Ronan stood up, his hands dragging across the back of his neck; he tossed me a rueful glance, looked down at the floor, and then said.

"You sure?" She cut him a cold glance.

"Quite _sure_." For the first time a smile curved onto Ronan's face and I found it mirrored in my own.

"Ain't lost none of that attitude," he muttered, and then brushed past me to the door. He caught me by the arm, leaned close and said into my ear,

"I say we get movin' now. Alecto won't care if we arrive at three in the mornin' so long as she gets her back. You get Finch. I'll take care of the mudblood." I gritted my teeth and said through them,

"Alright." Mute agreement, forced consent. I didn't look back at her as I swept away down the corridor but I knew I'd left part of myself there, with her. I knew I'd never get it back. But she'd never be the same again, either. I'd make sure of that.

So, laziness got the better of me, and I have to admit, I'm eight chapter ahead on Mibba than I am here..I'll try and post here over the next few days to get caught up. There's plenty to read. But if you want to check it all out before then, go here: .com/read/336649/Snatched/


	13. twelve

The skies were swirling as we marched through that night. Above and around me translucent smoke curls drifted up through the bitter air (the only sign we were still breathing, still alive). It was so quiet. Like the aftermath of genocide, with no movement left to be made, when a little mouse runs up and takes its first sniff of death. Three lots of heavy footfalls signalled we were coming (hers were long, she dragged her heels, literally).

We stopped in front of a gate which sprang up into the black sky. Beside me Finch jittered, twitching his shoulder, scraping his foot on the ground, restless.

"Freezin'," he muttered, rubbing his hands together desperately. "Can we be quick about this, boss?"

"Bloody hope so," I replied. "Longer we keep on like this, more likely we are to get Archer an' them lot comin' back." He nodded, and I couldn't ignore the lump in my throat when she slipped past me, like she'd accepted for the first time what was going to happen to her. The goats slowly crept open and as they did a wave of even colder air struck our faces; then, swimming out of the shock of that icy blast, very slowly, the shadows seemed to stretch themselves, elongate, slide out from underneath the high hedgerow. I went hot with fear. We all stood still as the dementor rose up in front of us, drawing itself up to its full height, this one dusty and tattered, long, scabbed hands just visible beneath the sleeves. It drifted calmly forwards and seemed to meet her half way: she lifted her face slowly, her face impassive and serene, and Ronan looked at me, his eyes wide.

"Valora," I said quietly, the first time I'd ever said it, I think. She inhaled sharply but didn't move; her face seemed to blur suddenly, whip up into a storm, and Ronan nudged the dementor away with his cautious patronus which was a silvery stoat and which chased the dementor back into the sky. Finch edged forwards and after a moment Ronan carried on walking too; I moved behind her and she stumbled back a little, for a moment so surprised she didn't shake away the hands I put out to hold her up.

"You want to watch out," I murmured into her hair and pulled away. She looked at me coldly. "I got an interesting story about them dementors." She ignored me and began to move forwards again; I followed her, undeterred by her contemptuous gaze, and put my arm around her shoulders, pulled her close. "Don't you want to hear it?" She shrugged her shoulders.

"Given the circumstances I don't particularly care."

"What circumstances? The ones where you almost got done-in by a dementor?" She stuck her chin into the air so I knew she was annoyed; I smirked and stroked her jaw as I went on, "Well. I'll tell you." She glanced at me and pursed her lips.

"Time was I weren't doin' so well for myself," I said, pressed my fingertips into her arm. "Got myself into a duel. You can guess what happened." I paused. She was silent. "Well go on, then."

"You got yourself injured."

"Nah, darlin'," I said, laughed, murmured into her ear, "Killed him, didn't I?" She turned and looked at me sharply, her face so close to mine that I could make out everything from tiny pores of her skin to the flecks of green in her eyes.

"Who was he?" She whispered.

"Weren't no-one _important_, if that's what you mean," I said, looking up for a moment as the castle loomed over us. "Well, they got onto me soon enough. First time in Azkaban. Didn't really believe the place existed 'till I was there." She shook her head to herself a little, parted her lips and pulled back the corners of her mouth, incredulous.

"I can't believe you're telling me this."

"Anyway," I said, "Anyway. Put me in this cell with the rest of them, right in the middle. It weren't so bad, not at first. 'Bit borin', kind of cold. But one day this guy tried to escape. Tried it. It was the middle of the night, we was all sleepin'. First thing we all knew was that there was a dementor in each of our cells. Woke up to this thing looming above us, didn't know what to do."

"What happened?" I looked at her and smiled. She looked to the ground, added curtly, "Just wondering. "

"Almost killed me," I said, nodded my head a little. "Ain't never experienced anythin' like it since. It weren't supposed to, none of 'em was. It was like it had a mind of its own, I don't know. I just stared at it. So I don't think they like it if you stare at them." I went quiet and we walked in silence for a few moments until she said:

"You were in Azkaban." I sighed and squeezed her gently.

"What, you thought I was all good, did you? 'Find that out as you get older, sweetheart. People got pasts, ain't they?" She didn't reply, only looked up when she realised how close we were getting to the entrance to the castle. She tried to turn away but I caught her by the arm and pulled her along with me.

"You know," she called, and tugged her arm from my grasp, "If we're being honest, here." But she didn't go on, just stopped, and so I said,

"And what?" She looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, and as we stopped outside the doors and waited, she said,

"What time is it?"

"Why d'ya want to know?" I asked, suspicious, but told her:

"It's just gone twelve."

"Well," she said, and folded her arms over her chest and smiled. I'd never seen her smile like that, either. A happy smile, a hopeful smile. A life-or-death smile. "Haven't you got anything to say to me?" I frowned, bewildered. I heard the door open beside us and Ronan ad Finch hurried through.

"Get a move on?" I replied, nodded my head towards the door and moved to pull her through. She caught my hand, surprised me.

"Happy birthday," she said, didn't let me go. "Happy birthday, Valora. I'm eighteen today." I realised all the wizarding implications of that, of course. I knew now letting a wand getting into her hands was fatal. But I also realised what it meant for her, as a girl; because, well, she wasn't, not anymore, but I could have been fooled, because as we passed into the entrance hall she looked more youthful than ever. Fresher, brighter. Even more beautiful, ethereal, almost.

"Guess your present ain't what you was hopin' for," I smirked as we began to move through the castle, figures in their portraits scurrying away from us. She tucked her hands into her pockets and kept her eyes ahead of herself as she walked, quiet and resolved.

"No," she said, and her lip trembled a little. "It wasn't, really."

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